


Concept of Contrast

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Six Feet Under
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-22
Updated: 2004-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 01:20:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1624001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know, fucked-up navel-gazing, but intentionally ironic fucked-up navel-gazing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Concept of Contrast

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Apathy

 

 

The timer clicks off and the light goes out. Claire blinks against the flash and on the other side of the room "OK Computer" starts up again. She's getting sick of that fucking CD, but it's either that or more angry vagina music. She always means to bring more CDs into the lab with her, and she always forgets. She can really be a dumbass sometimes.

She flips the paper over (not like she needs to, but she got into the habit back in high school and never felt like breaking it), turns around, drops it in the developer and gently rocks the tub. It's really dorky of her, but the truth is, this is her favorite part of the whole thing. She can't help smiling when the darks first show up, just these vague blurry shapes, and then again when the rest of it, subtler lines and shading, starts coming in. It's pretty damn cool to watch, even though the red light makes it look all strange and distorted.

It's weird here today though, because she was up all night but she's not tired at all. She'd tried to sleep for a while, but it didn't work. She kept thinking about how awesome the shadows had been, once she'd found those big floodlights out in the bomb shelter, and wondering if she should've used the 200 ASA instead and if it would've been better if she'd closed her eyes for more exposures. And then she wound up just laying in bed waiting for it to be nine o'clock so she could get down to LAC-Arts the second the lab guy unlocked the doors.

So she had a ton of coffee before she left the house and she's pretty wired at this point, but it's actually helping her focus. She's even obsessively recording the exposure times and f-stops in her notebook, which she, like, never does anymore. And by the time her first print starts getting clear, she's feeling pretty good.

Except ... wait a second.

Fuck, this isn't right. This shot was supposed to, like, demonstrate the futility of self-reflection. You know, fucked-up navel-gazing, but intentionally ironic fucked-up navel-gazing. Instead it just looks like she's trying way too hard not to smile, and it's making her face look all scrunched up. Or, even, just plain stupid.

Well, maybe it's just the one shot.

But then she tries nine more negatives, and it's the same with all of them. She's always making some dumb face. Which is really weird, because she lined up the mirror before the shoot, just like that pretentious Peterson book said to do, so she knew exactly what her face looked like every single time she clicked the shutter, and she'd been pretty fucking sure at the time that she hadn't looked like _that_. She'd looked _ironic_. Not this lame pseudo-insecure shit that's showing up in the prints.

Screw it, she's just going to have to shoot the whole thing over again. In color, this time. Anyway, nothing ever looks real in black and white anymore. That's for amateurs, kids who're still obsessed with the whole concept of contrast. Like, ooh, darkness, how original.

But either way, she has to finish this set or it's just a waste of paper. So she dumps the last print in the stop bath and squirts hypocheck into the fixer.

It's cloudy.

Fuck. And the idiot lab guy's probably passed out somewhere. She'll have to change it herself, which blows, because she hates lifting up that huge fucking tray.

But she does it anyway, and she's in the middle of tilting it at just the exact angle to pour the bad fixer back into the pitcher without spilling when the door bangs open and Anita comes in, shouting, "Hey, loser, hurry the fuck up so we can get out of here!"

"God, fuck you, Anita!" Claire loses her grip on one side and the fixer splashes out of the tray. Some of it goes down the drain, which is bad, and the rest splashes onto Claire's tank top, which is a lot worse. "Fucking _fuck!_ "

"Oh, ew." Anita hops up onto the empty enlarger table next to Claire's and drops her purse on the floor. "I hate that stuff."

" _Fuck_ it." Fuck, it's cold, and now she's going to stink for the rest of the day. "Well, yeah, 'cause it's not actually supposed to go on your fucking _clothes_. Jesus _fuck_."

"Yeah, well. Just hurry the fuck up, I want to get out of here." Anita lights a cigarette, which is just so disgusting with all the chemicals in there, and the room's all small and dark and claustrophobic, and now Claire's just getting pissed.

"Okay yeah, whatever, just ? wait outside, okay? It's hard enough to breathe in here as it is." Claire waves her hand around in front of her face to emphasize Anita's grossness. Anita waves her hand around in a really pathetic imitation of Claire, and wow, Claire always forgets how annoying Anita is until she goes and does something like that. And then, after she's done with the stupid posturing, Anita finally goes outside and Claire's alone in the lab again.

God, she's totally coated in this stuff. She can hardly breathe. She's never going to be able to wear this shirt again, which sucks, because she really liked it. Claire holds her breath and peels it over her head, trying not to let it touch her hair, and goes to rinse it out over the sink. She wrings it through a bunch of times, but that smell's definitely not going away any time soon. And now on top of reeking like some fourth-grade science fair project, now her bra's going to show through and she's going to look like some sorority skank. And Russell will spend all day trying to fucking sniff her.

She winces and pulls the soaking wet shirt back on just as Anita stomps back in, still puffing away. "Did you think I was fucking kidding? I said come on, let's go, I'm fucking _bored_."

Fucking Anita, God. "Yeah, so, you know, you really aren't supposed to smoke in here."

Anita snorts. "Okay, _Mom_. Call the lab cops on me, why don't you. Jesus."

Claire scrubs her face with the back of her hand. Which, it turns out, is a bad idea, since she's still wet from the sink, but at least it smells like most of the fix has washed off her skin. She sighs. "God, would you please just shut up."

Anita stops fiddling with her cigarette and stares at her. "Um, _no_. Okay, what the fuck's the matter with you today?"

"Nothing." Claire rolls her eyes. "Look, you know, you should just go ahead. I'm going to have to reshoot these anyway, it's going to take forever."

Anita's still gaping. "Um. Okay, whatever, it's not like you have to do that right this second."

"Well, yeah, except I do, actually, 'cause my crit's on Thursday."

"So? Just show Pope what you've already got. She'll hate it either way."

"Yeah, that's great, thanks." Claire lines up the rest of the negatives in the easel. Might as well print a contact sheet in case she decides to come back to these, ever.

"You're not serious." Suddenly Anita's right up next to her, which is just creepy. "You're not really just going to work all fucking day. Not after you blew us off last night. _Again_."

"God, Anita, are you really that co-dependent? Go salivate over Russell some more, you won't even notice I'm not there." Claire sets the timer at 12 and punches the button.

Anita stares some more, then snaps, "Fine," grabs her purse and heads back to the door. God, she's so damn moody. Whatever, at least Claire doesn't have to think about her anymore.

Even though it's just a contact sheet, Claire scribbles "12-f/8" in her notepad, and the light clicks off. She flips the paper over, drops it in the tub and starts rocking.

 

 

 


End file.
